


(Un)forsaken

by Altariel



Series: The Steward and the King [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn and Faramir go to the pub, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-01-05 19:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: Two Rangers, on the Road.





	1. Forsaken

**Forsaken**

_Eriador, Autumn 3007 T.A._

In the end, he spent only one night at the _Pony_ , sitting alone in the corner, calmly ignoring the occasional evil eye cast in his direction. Aye, well, he never looked his best when he came this way, and the weather had turned at the start of the week. He sat waiting, with supper and pipe, watching the door. A party of dwarves, thick-cloaked and heavy-booted, arrived. They took the seats next to him and went about their business noisily, as dwarves are wont to do. A little before midnight he gave up on Halbarad, and slipped off to bed. Nobody saw him go.

The following morning, he set out quietly, but in haste, leaving payment for Butterbur behind the counter as usual. No need to draw attention to himself. A watery sun rose not long after. He strode east along the Road in fair spirits. The sky was clear and there was still one last chance of supper and a smoke beside the hearth before the emptied lands that lay between him and the Last Homely House.

Soon enough the clouds gathered and, mid-morning, it began to rain. 

* * *

Halbarad came from nowhere, out of the rain and the mist. Fell into step beside him. After a couple of miles, he said, “Sorry I’m late.”

They walked on a few more miles. “Blasted rain,” he added.

Strider nodded beneath his hood. They went over another hill or two. “ _Last Inn_ before sundown?”

The rain went on falling steadily. “Aye,” said Halbarad, eventually. “I’ll drink to that.” 

* * *

Sundown, he’d said, not that the sun showed her face again that day. In the fading light, they trudged along the Road, two tired men ready to sit and eat and sleep. Cresting the hill, they saw _The Last Inn_ , nestled below. As they drew closer, a crow flapped up from the low thatched roof. Strider shivered, and said softly, “No lights.”

They came off the road onto the path. The gate hung on its hinges. Everything was very quiet. Up close, they could see that the windows were shuttered, and the door closed. Halbarad said, “I’ll check round the back.”

Strider tried the door. A futile endeavour: the place was locked up, empty, the owners gone, their livelihood forsaken. Another building left to fade into the grass; another sign of the long fall into nothing. The rain was lashing down now, and, suddenly, it became too much: the immediate task, the greater one, the sheer improbability that their labours would bear fruit. Halbarad, coming back round the building said, “Locked there too. All gone a while by the looks of things.” When his Chieftain did not reply, Halbarad put his hand against the door. “I can open this.”

* * *

Inside was dark. They threw off cloaks and boots, got a small fire going in the hearth, and began to dry. Halbarad went rummaging behind the counter. “Here,” he said. “This cask isn’t empty.”

So, there was ale, at least, and a roof, neither of which were to be taken for granted these days.

They pulled two chairs over to the fire, lit pipes, drank, and smoked. Halbarad smiled at him. Halbarad, dourest of men, trying to cheer him up. “Come back here after, Estel,” he said. “When it’s done. When the King’s Peace stretches from Fornost to Pelargir, and the roads are open, and the lands are full and free. Drink,” he said, lifting his mug, “to the North Kingdom, to the South Kingdom, to the fairest of Queens, and the glory of the West.”

And Elessar did. 

* * *

_Altariel, 4-5 April 2019_


	2. Unforsaken

**Unforsaken**

_Minas Tirith, 20 F.A._

It never ceased to amaze Aragorn that his Steward – one of the most learned and cultured men of his acquaintance, fluent in four languages and with a working knowledge of several more – had hardly ever crossed the borders of his country. Occasional visits to Rohan, of course, yes, and that memorable journey to the Morgul Vale that they had made together, but otherwise, Gondor had contained him his entire life.

“Would you have liked to travel?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir was sitting at his desk, sifting patiently through papers. “There was never the chance.” He looked wistful. “I would have liked to have seen Rivendell.”

“Let’s go north one day,” Aragorn said. “Let me show you Annúminas, in summer—”

“One day,” Faramir said. “Although if the King is not in the City, the Steward should be.”

“Nobody is indispensable.”

“I am. Or so you have told me on numerous occasions. Was that not true?”

The papers moved from one side of the desk to the another. Aragorn tried again. “Why not come with me as far as Tharbad?”

“Tharbad?”

Faramir’s hand hovered over the parchment he was reading. He was tempted, Aragorn could see; Boromir had passed that way on his quest. Would that be enough to pull him away from this desk?

“It’s a long way,” said Faramir.

“The road is in the best shape it has ever been. You’ll be back before you know it.”

Some more papers arrived. The Steward put down his pen and flexed his hand. “Very well.”

* * *

_Tharbad, 20 F.A._

At Tharbad, they saw first-hand the fruits of their labours. Many of the buildings were now made of stone. Boats went up and down the river; travellers up and down the road. They walked quietly round the settlement; two Rangers, passing through. Everywhere banners fluttered in the breeze: white horse; silver tree. The confluence of kingdoms and alliances.

They walked across the new wood bridge, stopping to look up the Greyflood at the old stone ruins that spanned the water like vast and ancient stepping stones. Swans flapped overhead. The docks were busy. They came to the northern bank and stood with old Gondor behind them, new Arnor rising ahead. Faramir, sighing, turned his face south. Aragorn guessed where his thoughts strayed: home, children, wife, work.

“I’ll set out in the morning,” the Steward said. “Go back through Edoras.”

Before they left, Éowyn had drawn her liege-lord aside. _Take your time_ , she said. _Please._

“Why not come a little further?” Aragorn said. “Gondor can spare you, surely? It barely misses me when I’m away.”

“I should be in the City…”

“Everything is in hand,” Aragorn said. “Our wives are excellent women.”

The Steward, laughing, surrendered. “Where to?”

Aragorn looked north. “Home.” 

* * *

_Rivendell, 20 F.A._

The world outside was turning towards summer, but here leaves drifted, dust swirled, and distant voices echoed in halls that had once been full of light and song and laughter. Aragorn found Faramir standing in the library, holding a closed book between both hands.

“This is as far as Boromir went,” he said. “But we will not go back by the road he took. We cannot.”

No, thought Aragorn; there was no return that way, not to Lórien or beyond. “Come a little further with me,” he urged.

Faramir shook his head. “No, no, I’ve been gone too long already—”

“Not far,” he coaxed. “I have unfinished business, west of here, along the Road. I need…” He grasped for something that would bring this man with him. “I need a witness.”

“A witness?” Faramir looked at him doubtfully. “Whatever for?”

“I have… an outstanding debt to settle. A promise to keep. A matter of honour.”

The Steward closed his eyes. “How far?” 

* * *

_The East Road, 20 F.A._

The inn stood some way west of Rivendell, nestling at the side of the Road. Aragorn, opening the door, smelled fresh paint and cut grass and beer and pipeweed. Smiling, he led Faramir over to the counter. The lad there gave the two Rangers a warm welcome.

“Good to see you open again,” said Strider.

The lad gasped. “You remember the old place?”

“Aye.”

The lad gave a fond, faint smile. “Granddad would be pleased. He talked about the Rangers coming through.”

“Aye, there was always a drop or two more,” said Strider. “You know, the last time I came this way was not long after the place closed. Found a cask behind the counter. Swore I’d come back and pay for what we’d taken.” He turned to Faramir, who passed him a bag of coins, which he placed in turn on the counter.

“Ah,” said the lad, “there’s no need for that!”

“Yes, there is,” said Elessar. He nodded at his Steward, and pointed at a table over by the window. Faramir went and sat down. His expression lay somewhere on the border between exasperation and fury. “Was that it?”

“What?”

“Your unfinished business?”

“Yes.”

The beer arrived. Aragorn gave it a loving smile.

“Sire,” said the Steward, “have you dragged me across two kingdoms to watch you buy beer?”

“What better use is there for the money? And, no, I didn’t drag you across two kingdoms to watch me buy beer. I dragged you across two kingdoms to see me pay for beer I took years ago. This,” he tapped his mug, “is our reward.” He pushed Faramir’s mug towards him. “Drink up.”

They drank. After a while, Faramir said, “Can I go home now?”

The King of the West lit his pipe and stretched back in his chair. “Give up, after you have come so far? Your wife would never forgive me. No.” He raised his mug. "On to Annúminas!” 

* * *

_Altariel, 5 th April 2019_ 


	3. Homesickness

**Homesickness**

_Ithilien, Autumn 20 F.A._

The Prince took the ferry from Harlond, and rode slowly up into the Royal Hills. The day was lengthening, and the sun was behind him. For a moment, he stopped simply to breathe again the scent of his own country, taste the sweet air of home. The whole household was waiting to welcome home their Prince, their father, their love. Back in their arms, he could not understand what had ever kept him away.

Over the next few weeks he found there was surprisingly little for him to do. Éowyn had ruled the princedom; Arwen the City and the realm. Instead, through the late autumn and early winter, he sat with his notebooks and sketches, and put them into order. Morwen and Léof helped. One liked stories; the other liked adventures. By spring the book was ready. He had always thought that his first would be poetry – something of that sort. Not this.

Then an embassy arrived from Harad, bearing a complicated tale of rivalries, intrigue, and the imminent ousting of allies. The council pondered the news. Someone would have to go and see first-hand, it was decided, to suggest to all concerned that Gondor did not care for such an outcome. The King, newly returned from the north, was not eager to travel again so soon; others did not speak the language, or had insufficient knowledge of the intricacies, or simply must remain within their fiefdoms. Who could be found?

The Steward thought of spring in Minas Tirith, the white sun upon the stones and the gardens blossoming; and summer in Ithilien amidst the shady woods and icy falls. He thought of peaceful hours at his desk, reading and writing, his family close to hand. He thought of the pattern of his days; the papers and petitions, the missives and meetings; the road back and forth between city and home. He considered his long recent journey; swans over Greyflood; vast and misty mountains; a library unlike any other; the old stones of Eriador. Standing in Annúminas at Midsummer with the King of the West. Camping under the stars with Strider. And then he wondered exactly how well he spoke that sunburned language of the south, and whether he dared put what he knew to the test.

“Send me,” he said, to everyone’s surprise, and his own not least. “I’ll go.” 

* * *

_Altariel, 7 th April 2019_


	4. Homecoming

**Homecoming**

_Minas Tirith, 21 F.A._

Nine months in the south taught the Prince of Ithilien a number of things. He was, for example, fluent now in two more languages, not just the high court Haradric he had studied in his youth, but also the ruder version spoken on the streets. He confirmed what he had always suspected, that the best intentions are insufficient when others are set on acting in bad faith. And he had been reminded how little can be packed when leaving a place in haste.

It was not that his mission had been unsuccessful… Well, it had been entirely unsuccessful in its stated purpose of keeping the Lord Irâz, Gondor’s closest ally in the south, in favour with his Emperor. But it had been perfectly successful in its swiftly conceived secondary aim of extracting Irâz from court before his rivals could murder him, and hurrying him across the border. Irâz now sat in lonely exile in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. If any assassin reached him there, the Lords of Gondor had more to worry about than the safety of a banished man.

In a small quiet room in the White Tower, Faramir collapsed gratefully into the nearest chair. Húrin of the Keys passed him a cup of wine, which he drank to the dregs.

“You were supposed to be a safe pair of hands,” said the King.

“I defy anyone to have done any better,” said his Steward. “They are all quite mad.”

Aragorn laughed. “I’m impressed you kept Irâz propped up as long as you did. I thought you’d be back within three months.”

“I thought six,” said Húrin.

Faramir frowned. “I hope you have both lost substantial amounts on this wager.”

“Deservedly so,” said Aragorn. “Although the Queen has gained substantially. Your wife, I should add, did not expect to see you back before a whole twelve months were up. She clearly has greater faith in your guile.”

 _Éowyn…_ Faramir sighed and closed his eyes. Nine months away from her was far too long, never mind the peril. He had missed her desperately. As the months dragged past in that hostile land, he had consoled himself by buying her ever more extravagant gifts. Sweet perfumes and fine silks. Jewellery of great beauty and craft. Finely-woven carpets, and tapestries patterned with the words of their finest poet. Every last single pretty piece left behind in a sandstone town house in Khôm, which had surely by now been ransacked by his enemies. All he had to offer her was himself—

“She’s here in the city,” Aragorn said softly.

—himself, and a host of new curses. In retrospect, he thought this was what she would prefer.

Faramir laughed, and opened his eyes. The King was smiling at him. “Well done,” said Aragorn, softly. “You are, as ever, indispensable.” He looked at Húrin. “Where shall we send him next?” 

* * *

_Altariel, 8 th April 2019_

 

 


	5. Out of the Weeds

**Out of the Weeds**

_Harlond, 22 F.A._

Spring was turning towards summer before the Prince of Ithilien emerged once more from the bosom of his family into the wider world. Another book had been written, this one about his time in the South. Morwen and Léof had assisted once again. This time the hunger for adventure had been clear in Léof’s eyes, and Faramir knew it would not be long now before the boy was on his way. His father did not intend to travel again for a long time, not beyond the familiar.  

When he reached the inn at the Harlond, Strider was already there, wreathed in smoke. They sat together peacefully, quietly, as they had done many times, watching the river. 

“I enjoyed the account of your travels,” said the King, at last.

“Thank you. I know you know the region well.”

The King gave his pipe a dismissive wave. “Oh, that was all a very long time ago. I’m sure a great deal has changed. Still, I thought your selection of material was… judicious, to say the least.” 

Faramir drank some wine. He had naturally chosen his material carefully. He was hardly going to give away state secrets.

“Did you not smoke out there?” said the King. 

“Smoke? No.”

“Really?

“Of course not. You know I think it’s—”

“A filthy habit, yes.” 

The King carried on smoking; the Steward carried on drinking. They both watched the silver ripples of the river.

“I heard a great number of stories while I was out there,” said the Steward. 

“Oh yes?”

“In Khôm.”

“I enjoyed my time in Khôm.”

Faramir shuddered. He had not, particularly.

“What were the stories about?” said the King. “I recall a very good one about a snake caught by its own riddles—”

“Not legends.”

“No?”

“No. These were stories about the visitor from the White City. The _tarkil_ who liked to smoke.” He eyed his companion. “He had a flinty look about him, they said, and did not lose at games of cards and dice. Also, he liked to smoke. Whatever was on offer, he would try.”

“He sounds a very dubious character.”

“I thought so,” said the Steward.

“When was this, as a matter of interest?”

“In the ’sixties, they said.”

Strider smiled. “Round about the time I was in Meduseld. I did not visit Khôm until much later.”

“Oh.” The Steward frowned down into his glass.

“Of course,” the King went on, conversationally, “your father was there for a while in his youth. Shortly after your grandsire became Steward. We often talked about his time there. Did you ever read his journals in the end, Faramir?”

“No,” said Faramir faintly. “I never did.” 

* * *

_Altariel, 23 rd April 2019_


	6. Rites of Passage

**Rites of Passage**

_Minas Tirith, 22 F.A._

It was not that they kept secrets from Father (he always knew what they were up to anyway), but there were some things that they had together decided were best not mentioned too often, and Grandfather was one of them.

But how could they not be interested? A careful silence had surrounded him throughout their youth. It was different from the gaps in the stories of their other grandparents, where they quickly hit the simple wall of their parents’ lack of memories. The King had proven a great source of information here. He had known each one of them. There was the tale of Éomund, a boy of eleven, trying to pass himself off as full-grown Rider, sneaking his horse to the back of the patrol, getting no more than a yard or two.  

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Father had said. “I see now where Dernhelm came from.” Mother hit his arm.

There was the tale of Théodwyn, a fierce child of eight, refusing to remain indoors until even Steelsheen herself threw up her hands and gave way.

Father, seeing that this story had Mother rubbing her eyes, did not make a single joke.  

There were many of tales of fair Finduilas, which all seemed to tell of the sweetness her laughter, or the beauty of her singing, or the time he had seen her dancing for joy in the rain.

And Father and Mother would hold hands and look both wistful and happy, all at once.

But he did not tell stories about Denethor, and neither did anyone else, until someone broke the silence, and Father and Mother told them the tale in full. And then they knew – the three of them – that Grandfather was a subject best not broached.

What was strange, though, was that the King sometimes talked about him now – if they were there, and Father was not, and the subject came up. The King remembered the old Steward; remembered him, and honoured him.  

But they were hungry for more.

“He kept journals, you know,” Morwen said to her brothers one evening.

Bron was toasting bread on the fire and only half-listening. “Who?”

“Idiot boy. Grandfather.”

Both her brothers sat up. “Where?” said Bron. And, “Have you read them?” said Léof.

“In the city archive. And no.” Morwen chewed her bottom lip. “I want to, of course... But, well. You know.”

They did know. But still… They eyed each other. Bron handed round the toast. “Has Father read them, do you know?” he said, slowly.

“I don’t know,” said Morwen. “And no – I won’t ask.”

“Will you read them?” said Léof.

Morwen sat for a little while, thoughtfully chewing her toast. When she was done, she wiped the butter from her fingers. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”

And she did. She went one day early to the archives, and asked for them to be brought, and the archivist remarked that nobody had looked at them since they had been sent here after the war. She sat for a week, with a pile of tall narrow books, bound in black leather, each one filled with the small precise script of her forefather. What she took from them was his erudition, and how for nearly seventy years his handwriting did not change. Not even near the end.

Bron went next, after Morwen assured him it was safe. “Don’t read the last five,” she said. “They’ll only make you worry.” She knew her brother – a stickler for tradition, proud of his heritage, and above all loyal to Father. There was no happiness for him in that story; no courage to be granted from seeing that giant grief writ large upon the page. No need for him to see how tightly the script remained under control. No need to see the blotches. “I’ll give you the gist.”

And he trusted her completely – his first and forever his best counsellor – and he read instead from the middle years: what it was like to be the Steward’s Heir; what it was like to become Steward. And he learned more about the court of the Minas Tirith, its histories and its rivalries, than even Father could tell him. “Did you read them all?” said Léof. “No,” said Bron. “Some of the early ones are in code.”

Code. That was enough to send Léof their way. Léof was never in a hurry, but when the decision was made, he did not waste time. One fair spring morning, as if on a whim, he wandered down to the archive. No whim, of course. He had been thinking of Father’s trips away, and their Southron friends, and something that the King had said in passing.

And he sat with the first few years, and patiently cracked the code his forefather had left behind. He read stories of a youth that none of them had guessed; how, once upon a time, a young man had travelled south, with a mission to make alliances, if he could, or prevent enmities, if that was all that could be achieved. He thrilled at the nights spent at campfires, with games of chance and pipes passed round. He learned of harsh lords and clever chieftains, and laughed to see them meet their match in this clever young _tark_. He shuddered to read what he saw, with hindsight, were temples to Sauron rising up across the land. And he read with mounting unease the long account of the death of the Lord of Khôm, and the days of mourning that followed, and the very last day, when the chosen wife and child were carried from the house, and taken with their lord to the funeral pyre…

Léof read to the end, and closed the book. Later, when his brother and sister asked him what he had found he said, “A tale or two from the south. Nothing more.” And when, a year or two later, he followed his forefathers south, he stood upon the great stone bridge in Khôm, watching the river slide by, and he commended the scraps of paper to the waters.   

* * *

_Altariel, 25 th April 2019_


	7. The Worthies of Bree

**The Worthies of Bree**

_The Prancing Pony, Bree, July 20 F.A._

King Strider, entering the common room of the Prancing Pony, knew immediately that all was not well. Standing behind the bar, his arms folded and his lips pursed, was Bedwig, old Barley’s son, now owner of the inn. Four of his cronies were loitering with him at the counter, casting dark looks at the far end of the room. There, sitting quietly by himself, and entirely oblivious to the opprobrium he was earning, was the Prince of Ithilien.

“Well,” said Strider, nodding at their half-empty tankards, “and what are we all drinking this evening?”

“We,” said Bedwig, tightly, “are drinking beer. _He_ ,” he nodded towards the Prince, “is drinking wine.”

Wine. Did the Pony even stock wine?

“He said,” added Tom Appledore, ominously, “as how he knows the vineyard it come from.”

“You know,” said Bob Rushlight, slowly, “now I think about it, what I think he meant was that he _owns_ the vineyard it come from.”

“And I said,” said Bedwig, approaching high dudgeon, “that I might know naught about vitty-culture, but I did know as how my old dad had kept this barrel for a special occasion, and so he took a glass.” He glared meaningfully at the King. “I opened the barrel, and he took – a _glass_.”

Strider saw their tankards filled, which mollified them slightly, and he also paid for the barrel, which had Bedwig tipping his forehead and noting to his fellows as how the King was a decent and fair-minded man when all was said and done. This diplomatic incident averted, Aragorn went to join his Steward. Faramir had a journal open on the table in front of him, in which he was writing notes. Ah. His second mistake.

“You’re drinking wine,” the King remarked, as he sat down.

Faramir, smiling, put down his pen. “Yes, and it’s very good. Do you know, it was made in Ithilien? Before Ithilien was abandoned, I mean, not recently. It’s been maturing here this whole time!” He was plainly and sincerely delighted. “Do you want to try some?”

Strider tapped his tankard. “This’ll do.”

“Yes, of course.” Carefully, he began to collect his notes and papers together.

“You’re also writing,” observed the King. “In a book.”

“My travel journal,” said Faramir. “I’ve been keeping it since Tharbad.”

“I’d noticed,” said the King, although the habit had not stood out so much in Rivendell or Annúminas. “Any thoughts on the north?”

“It’s colder. It’s wetter.”

Strider coughed.

“It’s very beautiful. And it’s not Gondor.”

“Is that in its favour,” asked the King, “or not?”

“I pass no judgement,” said the Steward. “I merely observe the differences.” He took on a dreamy and reflective look. “And I shall never forget my first sight of Lake Evendim, and the city that rises there, nor shall I forget eagles on the hillside at Midsummer, and hearing the _Erulaitalë_ said...” His eyes went sharp. “I miss home, intensely, but I am not sorry that I came. If that is what you’re asking.”

Aragorn smiled at him, fondly. “Have you always kept a journal?”

“Oh, I did for many years. I stopped around… the year thirteen.”

“What happened in the year thirteen?”

“I turned thirty. And I realised there are only so many ways to write, _This week I slept in a ditch_.’

Aragorn laughed out loud. Behind him, he heard the sound of breath being collectively drawn in. Ah, a misstep… But this was all very strange. He had paid for the wine; he had got the book put away… What else could be bothering them?

He waved to the maid, Bed’s daughter, to come over, to ask her to fill the men’s tankards once again. When she arrived, she blushed pink and cast her eyes down. Strider thought, _What’s got into the girl?_ And then he caught the shy glances she was throwing at the Prince. He did nothing more than smile at her and speak to her with exquisite yet very natural courtesy. Half the court of Minas Tirith would fall over itself for less: the man had considerable charm, even if he didn’t realise it. How long, after all, had it taken to win Éowyn’s hand? Bed’s daughter, hurrying back to join the other maids, stood and sighed with them in a corner. _Ah_ , thought Strider, glancing at their furious fathers. _Yes, that would do it._

Later, after Faramir went off to bed, to the towering regret of half of the company and the righteous indignation of the other half, Strider joined the men.

“Wherever,” said Bed Butterbur, “did you dig him up?”

“Down south,” explained Strider, and the worthies of Bree sighed their sympathy, and shook their heads.

* * *

_Altariel, 30 th December 2019_


End file.
